Yes, My Daughter, There is a Santa Claus

I love me some Christmas! Bug has been so spirited this year it is impossible not to live vicariously through her. We started the season off by going through our closets and the toys to donate our things to boys and girls and mommies and daddies who don't have as much as we do. It's not easy to convince a three-year old that two of her dolls should go to someone else, but she definitely caught on. She has actually thrown it my face a time or two: "I give my toy to boys and girls don't have toys cause I don't want to pick it up," or "Mom, if you don't wear that shirt why don't you give it to mommies that don't have shirts." After donations she picked the gifts to give to her friends and cousins. We talked about how happy they will be to open it up. She can tell you that she likes to give because it makes her people super happy. She loved bundling up and walking hot chocolate jars, cookie bags, and homemade dog treats to the neighbors and singing "Merry Christmas!" in that special way only a young child can. And she asks often about Santa and whether he knows she is being good or if he can see her petting the cat nicely.

I have always been infectious with holiday spirit. As a kid, I was the one that couldn't contain my anticipation for Christmas morning. I would turn up the Mannheim Steamroller CD until the blaring trumpets shook the shelves (still do.) Even at the age of 15, I was up at 5:30am surveying the bounty ablaze in the pink, green, gold glow from the tree lights. My parents made a rule that we were not allowed to disturb them until 6, and only if our grubby paws were cradling hot cups of coffee or tea or cocoa. I begged my baby sister to say she still “believed” until she was about ten, cruelly suggesting that Santa would never come again if she stopped believing because she was the youngest. 

My mom and I were chatting the other day about the one Christmas morning that I slept until 8am and she knew for sure I was deathly ill. True be told, I had actually cried myself to sleep that night.  I was eight-years old and finally played opossum well enough to trick my mom into thinking I was asleep. I crawled out of bed, tiptoed down the hall, and witnessed the great con of children. I was devastated. My heart was broken. I am shocked I didn’t wake my sister with how loud I was sobbing.

Now integrity is a big deal in our house. Through the potty training woes with Bug, the most important issue for me is always whether she is telling the truth about her business. Having an accident is secondary to telling me a lie and that pretty much goes for everything else in this house. This fact coupled with my devastation from Christmas of ’88 makes me seriously contemplate the role Santa plays in our holiday traditions. Muffin thinks I am making too big a deal of it and that it would be cruel to take the magic of Santa away from our children. I agree that there is a magic about this particular holiday that wouldn’t be the same without the blind belief in St. Nick. But I worry about being confronted with the question one day about whether I have been lying to them all these years. So, I plan to use history.

Saint Nicholas was born in the third century to wealthy parents and raised a devout Christian. His parents died when he was young, and he obeyed the word of Christ by giving his wealth to the poor and the sick. He eventually became a Bishop known for his generosity to the needy and to children. He was imprisoned by Romans for his faith and after his release attended the Council of Nicaea. He died December 6, 343, and that day became known as St. Nicholas’ Day throughout Europe to keep the stories of his goodness and generosity alive. Simple gift giving on December 6^th is supposed to preserve the focus of Christmas Day on the birth of Christ.

1667 years later, we still remember Saint Nicholas as a generous and kind man whose desire to live like Christ strengthened his community and spread compassion throughout the world. He was a real person and his mission of honor through giving continues nearly two millennia later through each of us. That is magical. That is awesome. That is as real as any love on this Earth. So when my daughters ask about Santa, I will hug them close and confidently tell them that his magic is real enough to change the world, as is any heart focused with kindness, integrity and pure vision.

The Discipline Gene

So the other day I was confronted by the stark contrast between JD and Jennifer. Muffin has a lawyer friend he met as a police officer. The two hit it off over their interests in special military units (and possibly involvement although I admit I may have glazed over some of these conversations) and love for golf. While they get together whenever Muffin is in town, I have never personally met Lawyer Steve. I know that Steve has had a lot of success in his career: ivy league graduate, DA, successful private law practice, attorney for major recreational resort, great home in THE neighborhood, right family connections, etc. By sheer coincidence the other day, I happened upon Steve’s name on the Facebook profile of a high school buddy of mine. Sure enough, Steve and I went to high school together, and to make matters worse, he graduated a year after I did.

Once the initial small world shock wore off, one word came to mind: ouch. Here was a glaring example of all that I had NOT accomplished in the twelve years since high school. Adding salt to the wound was the fact that Steve remembered who I was out of a student body of 2000+ people. Now I remember nearly every person I have ever had a conversation with, but I never recalled having gone to high school with Steve in the four years he has been a friend with my husband. But he remembered me.

And why wouldn’t he? JD was a go-getter. Two-sport varsity athlete as a sophomore, International Baccalaureate student, club A, club B, blah, blah, blah. And in 12 years of work and study, what exactly have I done with all that potential? Yes, yes, I have created and nurtured a two beautiful girls and a marriage, don’t get me wrong that is hard and rewarding work, but what has that overachiever actually achieved? With that tenacity, that drive to do it all, what does my resume have to show for my twelve years in the world?

The honest answer to that question is: quit before I could fail. “NurtureShock” by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman is a collection of research studies and conclusions that go against the grain of modern parenting. It’s a great book on parenting I picked up before Bit was born. One of the studies they discuss talks about honors students being told throughout their childhood that they are smart, smart, smart. But when they finally get to a subject that is difficult for them, instead of having the confidence to try until they figure it out, they become insecure and give up. Right now I feel like the adult poster child for that study.

There are grandiose ideas swirling around in this head of mine, but I never start on any of them. I have a craft project I began in April when my best friend had her baby that still isn’t finished. I save ticket stubs, museum pamphlets, and Christmas cards for the scrapbooks I will put together someday. I have a shadow box of objects from my wedding five years ago that has never been put together. So, while I’d like to say that admitting I have a problem with discipline is the hardest step, obviously moving on to the next one is really the tough one for me. How does one suddenly become more disciplined? How does one begin finishing things they start, and clean the house, and nurse a baby, and wrestle a three-year old, and tickle feet, and make homemade dinners, and sleep? It seems that I am still a sprinter who needs more endurance.

I don’t want to leave these questions out into the Internet void and have my two readers (hi mom, hi mom-in-law) think I am not working on the solution. I am, but the solution and plan will have to come another day. In true Jennifer fashion, I am putting off finishing the thought for another day. HA!

No, honestly, I need to get to finishing one of the few projects I can honestly say I am seeing through to completion: my first family Christmas. It is the first year we are spending Christmas at home with no grandparents, traveling, or visitors. We are starting our own traditions, which means that I get to make all the meals and wash all the dishes. Sorry, Mom, there’s another thing I always took for granted!

The Potty Chronicals - Update

Since Bug decided she was, in fact, a big girl now, she spent two days in big girl panties with 100% success and enthusiasm. She started out wearing a shirt, socks and big girl undies, but yesterday I was able to get her into pants. I was hoping for three days in a row before she earned a spontaneous frozen reward, but she wanted to wear a diaper this morning after I changed her from overnight. I am still completely thrilled for our success and the plan is to just follow her lead. 

I am starting to realize that humans are hardwired just as any other animal. Sure, they model behaviors after their caregivers and learn important life skills from us, but there are some things they just do on their own time. I cannot force Bit to roll over, I cannot force Bug to fall asleep at my whim, and I cannot make Muffin write me a romantic sonnet. I am now a believer that children potty train on their own time. I taught her the process at 18-months. She knows the procedure and how to do it. But the motivation to finally let go of what she has always known is something she has to muster for herself. 

Her desire to know that Mommy will change her butt is just as strong as her belief that milk tastes different if it isn't in a sippy cup. We have discussed that after Santa comes to visit, her sippy cups will be thrown away and she will have to drink milk the same way she drinks juice. She had difficulty transitioning milk from bottles into sippy cups as well. It seems that my oldest girl is brave when it comes to trying new frivolous things, but when something is truly important (like milk or Mommy changing her) she is not easily convinced that change is a good thing. So, if potty training is any indication of the future, she may be a girl who needs a few more hugs during the beginning of school. She may have a hard time sometimes with the uncontrollable outside world or accepting new approaches to learning when she has mastered the old way. And I'm okay with this because, honestly, she really is just like her mother and her father.

Or she could completely surprise me, and be just like Bug.

Bit's Baby Dust

Since Bit was born, we have been overwhelmed with the need for congratulations for our extended brood of friends and family. I am now up to seventeen friends expecting babies in 2011 and more than half of those pregnancies were something I physically prayed for or for people who met Bit. It seems that since our little girl came into the world in such a dramatic fashion, so has the fertility of our friends.

It started back in May or June. At the time I was heavy in the belly and planning a trip for Bug and I out to Colorado for my Bestie Wendy’s wedding. I was thinking of all the friends and family I wanted to see and if my bulging belly would make any of them uncomfortable. One of our closest friends suffers from a tumor on her pituitary gland that likely began growing after her first pregnancy six years ago. She and her husband have racked up quite a list of doctor bills trying to figure out how to convince her body it is not in menopause. Muffin’s cousin had been struggling to conceive after a miscarriage, and I had two cousins in the same boat. Some of these conception problems had been going on for years and doctors had no answers as to why the couples were having problems.

So in May or June, I would be thinking of these women and feeling blessed to be pregnant. I would rub my belly, feeling connected to my baby girl, and give thanks for the opportunity to take part in such a miracle. And I would say a prayer for these four women, hoping that they could soon get some good news. By September, each one was pregnant, despite incredible medical situations! One did have a miscarriage, but it was her first conception and after five years of trying, the disappointment came with the silver lining that they could in fact conceive.

I boasted my baby dust success on Facebook and started getting requests from friends to pray for them. I started jokingly rubbing Lil Bit’s baldhead and saying prayers for my friends.  One by one, friend after friend, starting announcing they were expecting. Two conceived shortly after seeing me pregnant out in Colorado and after rubbing my belly for themselves. A third has recently announced she is expecting after a night out with Muffin and I and meeting Bit. The latest is Muffin’s best friend, who met Bit in the NICU, and I secretly made a few wishes for them (without their knowing it. SURPRISE!) So far, the streak is up to nine pregnancies for couples that I actually prayed for or had interaction with us. The other eight are coincidences. Usually I find out about two at a time. First, a coincidental pregnancy is announced and then the one I prayed for. The current dust list has three new members and the one original that miscarried.

I find it interesting because after our ordeal, I was given 25-30% chance of some sort of preeclampsia issue to arise again in any future pregnancies. For Muffin, these odds are too high to chance another NICU baby, mommy hospitalization, or fatalities. Since Bit is still so tiny that I don’t have any baby fever, I am inclined to agree with him, although I’m not sure how I will feel when she is running and talking and trying to catch up to her sister. But with these two beautiful girls in my life, would it be fair to risk their mother for the 50/50 chance of a brother?

The announcements of joyous new additions are helping me cope with the idea of being a complete family. I would have expected it to make me feel the opposite, but I am so thrilled to stalk the slightest hint at news for the people on my dust wish list, that I am satisfied. I look at my baby girl and I see her as such a catalyst for joy and completeness. It’s as if she was the missing cog in a machine, a puzzle piece that completed the whole picture, an elf bringing Christmas in July.  What if these announcements aren’t a coincidence? Could it be that the genuine, unselfish wish for joy for another is a magical aphrodisiac?

I do know one thing for sure; Bit’s Baby Dust is likely to strike again. There is a reason for her sly little grin!

The Potty Chronicals - Invoking Santa

Yes, I have invoked Santa to promote potty training. My level of Santa endorsement as a parent is still completely undecided. I’d prefer the girls to understand more of the spiritual concepts of the holiday season rather than the materialism. But, she asked a question the other day and I ran with it, hopefully all the way to the potty finish line.

Now we last visited potty training, I had completely stopped trying. We moved backwards into actual diapers again from pull-ups and I ceremoniously put the big girl panties into a box in my closet. This last week, despite my opposition, Bug has been adamant about being naked… in December… in New England. Now when she is naked she is 100% perfect with the potty so I gave in and let her be naked. She was doing her business about three days ago and asked, “Do you think Santa knows I went poopoo in the potty?” I immediately sent a text out into the grandparent universe and ten minutes later the phone rang with a jolly laugh and recognition of her victory.

I wish I could say that she has been completely diaper free since then, but the rest of the day continued to stay “dry.” The next day, we went to see Santa at the mall on one of his visits from the North Pole to see the children and update his list. It was her first official Santa visit and she happily talked to him, although politely refused sitting in his lap. She was dry for three and a half hours at the mall, I finally forced her to go when we stopped for dinner, and then another two hours until we got home. She did wet her panty/cover-up combo just before bed, but I was pleased with the progress.

The next day, she started the negotiations. She wanted candy for each attempt (Muffin decorates the tree with candy canes like his grandparents) and I agreed, but ONLY if she had clothes on AND used the potty. The most difficult step for our potty training has been the transition to clothes on. Momma gets tired of scrubbing floors or couches if we are in big girl panties only, and she just doesn’t seem to care about a wet layer.  She was resentful about that offer for most of the day. We had a play date with Momma E and her three-year old friend used the potty during the play date. Again, Bug was resentful about this as if it was being rubbed in her face.

But this morning, I noticed that she had left our bed without any drill sergeant demands that I get up too. After a little more dozing, I heard her stomping up the stairs, “Momma, Momma, I went poop!” She came around the corner naked as the day she was born and beaming with pride. I hopped out of bed with visible vigor, and sure enough, a wet diaper was on the floor next to her jammies, but she had indeed used the potty. I danced. I sang. I kissed. I hugged. I gave her 1/3 of her prized blue candy cane.

As we speak she is playing Simon Says with Muffin, shirt, socks and BIG GIRL panties on. She says she wants to be big. I said, “Yes, you are working so hard on being a big girl.” She resentfully replied, “NO. I AM a big girl.” So, no more conditions. I will treat her like a big girl and hopefully she will rise to the occasion and be one. And hopefully I don’t have to scrub my couch.

The Hardest Time of the Year

I miss the stars. I miss stepping out into the darkness of the Colorado plains and being welcomed by the Milky Way spread out before me, horizon to horizon, not a single tree or city haze to separate me from awesomeness. It’s been five months since I really saw them. Even at the near-ripening age of 31, it is one of the few things that instantly steals the breath from my lungs and weighs my jaw. To feel so small, so infinite, so mesmerized.

We dog sat the last few nights and during my 3 am potty walks I was treated to a rare New England star display. The crisp December air contrasting with the deep, dark sky actually made me thankful for those pulls out of bed in the wee morning hours.  I can’t remember the last time I saw the Big Dipper, Orion, Taurus, Gemini and Pegasus in one sky; I’m pretty sure it hasn’t happened since we moved here. Usually, the megalopolis city glare or cloud sweeps steal the heavenly thunder.

It couldn’t have come at a better time. Starry skies have always touched a primal emotional place inside me I cannot explain. Time under the stars often stirs me into a centered place especially when my mind is chaotic, as it has been these last few weeks. This is the hardest time of the year for us. Sure, the holidays are a common time for people to feel bummed out, lonely, and alienated. But for us, the first week of December brings distance, hollowness, and the reality of the potential evil lurking deep inside those few bad apples. This is the anniversary of the shooting.

Muffin used to be a civil police officer and I used to be a producer for a local morning news show. The third shift lifestyle fit our insomniac tendencies so we easily shifted to matinee movies and 7am dinners. In fact, I still contort at the idea of running grocery errands on a weekend. The night of the shooting I had just gotten my computer fired up and was reviewing the 10pm rundown when I heard “3Adam-38. Traffic.” It was my Muffin on the scanners calling in a stop (3Adam meaning his particular substation in the city and 38 for his ID number that night.) “Get ‘em Muffin,” I whispered as I did every time I recognized his voice on the scanners. I checked the time on my computer: 11:15pm. Then my editor/overnight photographer walked in and I needed to have a “supervisor” chat with him about work, so we sat down to talk. Just as I was getting to the meat and potatoes he stood up and walked away. “Where are you going?” I asked. “I have to gear up… officer down, didn’t you hear that?”

Of all the ass prods (associate producers) at my station, I took great pride at being the best scanner hound. From robberies to odd accidents with gnarly video, I had developed a reputation for not being afraid to send my video crew out on hunches from the scanner chatter. But I did not hear the officer down call this night. My brain never processed it. If I had, I would have known that Muffin was NOT the officer down, but the one making the call. While the next ten minutes was terrible, I’m glad I do not have to live with the sound of his voice making that call.

While my editor ran to gear up and grab the nearest reporter, I slowly processed the now screaming scanner chatter. The digital ID told me the chatter was from Muffin’s substation; 3Adams called in from every which where. They were all driving to the intersection of Muffin’s traffic stop. Then came a frenzied and quivering voice clear as new glass, “Where’s the medics, man, where’s the medics? You gotta get ‘em here quick, man. He’s hurt bad… he’s hurt real bad.”

I had often daydreamed scenarios like this; ALL soldier/first responder spouses do it. I had played scenarios in my head so often that I honestly wondered if I would have any emotion if it ever happened. I had two reactions: the left hand grabbed my cell; the right hand grabbed the work phone. With the right hand I dialed the only producer who knew the morning show well enough to cover immediately, my anchor, and my news director. I rallied the troops to cover for me because I was headed to the hospital. Between calls I ordered the overnight news crew to the right intersection and told them which non-emergency numbers to call.

The left hand was monitoring the cell phone. As a police family member I had attended a brief family readiness meeting on critical incidents so that I would know what to expect if my officer was involved in a shooting. I was reassured that spouses and family were quickly notified in the event of an incident. Because I worked with scanner traffic, I had mentioned to Muffin that if something was going down and he was NOT involved but going to cover, he should call my phone and let it ring once so that the missed call would let me know he was ok. The left hand phone stayed silent.

The silence prompted right hand action after the producer work was completed. I called the non-emergency number and rattled off Muffin’s personal ID code. I pleaded for them to just tell me if he was the one hurt, but they said they had no information. Because of the scanner, I had more information than they did. Because of the family briefing, I next called the substation nearest to my work so that someone could come and pick me up. They were completely clueless as to how to handle the situation. In retrospect, there was a substation whose desk operators knew that the newsgirl calling for beat checks was married to an officer. These women later told me that they were ready for me to call them and had their supervisor standing by for me. I honestly didn’t think to count on my own connections because I was trying to follow the protocol suggested to me.

Despite my constant calls, I had a few brief moments in between of emotional crying out. My poor colleague didn’t know what to do or say for me and sweetly just left a hand on my shoulder before he hustled out to do his job. I was left briefly alone with the silent left hand. After about 8 phone calls by the right hand, the left hand finally rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Fortunately I knew the voice, “There’s been a shooting. I hit bad guy. It’s gonna be a long night.”

Thankfully, it only takes an exhale for panic to leave the body. From my family training I knew that Muffin was now going to be swept away as a witness for reports, interrogations and any necessary first aid. “What do you need me to do?” I asked him. “I have no idea,” he replied.

And that was pretty much how I spent the next hour. No one seemed to know what to do with me. I was a spouse who knew about the incident sooner than they could have ever planned for and once my crew returned I would likely know more than any public relations filter they would normally put on a critical incident. It took about 20 minutes for other newsies to begin to filter in and crowd the newsroom. They all told me to go to Muffin, to leave and do what I needed to do. But honestly, I had nowhere to go. So after panic/focused protocol came limbo. After briefly talking to my mother-in-law and taking notes from the first calls with information from my reporter, I was shunned to a quiet space where I wouldn’t be a face on a news story. I made two more calls to the police department before finally being directed to someone on duty who happened to graduate the police academy with Muffin. He and his wife were members of our police family we actually socialized with and I believe he was taken off the streets and specifically put on Jennifer duty for the night. I drove to the police administration building to sit and wait.

Muffin had made the traffic stop and suspected a DUI, so he radioed in for a DUI officer (KJ) to come and do a roadside test. A second officer arrived as backup and approached the suspected vehicle. KJ arrived and the three began the same DUI dance they had done hundreds of times before. Muffin stayed in his car and began tickets to expedite paperwork. Officer #2 went around the back and passenger side of the suspect car and KJ approached the car for the third official police contact with the suspect. He opened the door. The suspect came out shooting.

Muffin heard a pop and immediately drew his weapon from inside his cruiser. He fired from the car through the windshield. Forensic evidence showed that the suspect murdered KJ, and fired at least two shots each at Officer #2 and Muffin. He was hit five times. When the suspect was on the ground, Muffin got out of his car, walked past the suspect and kicked the gun away from him and immediately attempted any first aid he could. It was Muffin who radioed in the officer down call, and Officer #2 who called in the “he’s hurt bad” statements I heard on the scanners. Muffin held KJ as he took his last breaths. Once paramedics arrived and Muffin was removed from first aid duties, his Sergeant offered him his cell phone to call me.  Regretfully, the suspect was not killed in the exchange of fire and court proceedings drew out the process for the victims.

*************

This is the first time I have really reflected on my side of the story that night. The incident is likely the defining moment of my adulthood. As a mother of two beautiful baby girls, it feels terrible to write that such an evil thing should define me. But I believe that was when JD left. I don’t want to be the woman I was before the shooting. I don’t want to be someone who takes family for granted, has career tunnel vision, or chooses pride over sappy apologies and terms of endearment. When the love of your life is in a shoot out, you don’t want to waste a moment not putting them first.  

Looking back, I cried on the surface. The first emotion I felt was guilt because I was thankful that my officer lived. KJ’s family was incredibly gracious. They actually said they felt sorry for us (and the family of Officer #2) because we had to live forward with whys in our heads instead of closure. They begged us to live forward and promised us that was what KJ would have wanted us to do. 

I spent the first year and a half baking Bug and doing my best to support Muffin’s emotional needs. He was the PTSD soldier poster child. He had swings of anger and guilt, but put on the professional face when it came to work. Things began to get tense in our relationship and I always put it on him – he wasn’t dealing with his issues, he was trying to push me away, he was being a dick. I finally decided that if he didn’t want my support I wouldn’t give it and I purposely started doing things I considered selfish: working out, spending time with friends, going out alone. That was when I realized how depressed I was and I hadn’t dealt with any of my own feeling as a victim. I had thrown all my energy into supporting my family and hadn’t taken a look at myself. In doing so, I was asking Muffin to be responsible for providing for the family through his own dark time AND to be responsible for all my happiness. For him, the weight of seeing me spinning in circles was adding to the weight of watching a man die and I was unknowingly breaking his heart.

This is the importance of balance in one’s life. This is the reason people say “you can’t help others if you can’t help yourself.” Since I realized that I hadn’t dealt with my own issues, I began taking time for myself again. I joined the gym. I took up healthy cooking as a hobby. I started making stronger efforts to hang out with the handful of friends we had made in New England. I reached out for activities to meet new people. I began the slow process of dusting off JD. 

Four years and two babies later I still struggle with the guilt of that night. There is no rhyme or reason as to why my Muffin made it and why bad guy waited until the third police contact to go crazy. I have always promised that I would live my life forward for KJ, and promised to strive to make every day of my life worthy of his sacrifice. But after 1462 days, I finally realize that living my life to honor him isn’t working. Living your life for anyone but yourself never works. So to KJ, Muffin, Bug and Bit, I am sorry that I haven’t completely committed myself to living my life as I see fit. I am sorry that I have wasted this time being a partner for someone else, a mother and role model for someone else and not the one I was destined to be. I promise that I will find the balance between ambition and martyrdom, achieving and loving so that I can live the life I deserve. And then, I will be the wife/mother you deserve.

Winterizing

October is the month of awe in New England. The brilliance of the foliage demands you take notice; that you stop for a moment in reverence for all the Earth provides. Trees on fire in hues of red, orange and yellow seem to ignite an urgency to be outdoors and basking in the last remnants of consistent sunlight. Then comes the blandness of November and you remember that it is time to turn indoors and tend to the hearth.

So we are tending and winterizing our chilly, drafty rental house. Our landlords are really great and we try to be the independent renters who only bother them for plumbing or electrical emergencies. There honestly isn’t much they can do about the drafts short of installing new windows and doors or fixing the duct systems, so I pull out the step stool and tape and get started on all the windows. The girls’ room is first because the humongous vent on the floor is a weak heat source, so they also get a mini-heater. Bit actually sleeps in our room so Bug gets the snuggliest footie jammies Mommy can find (even with socks underneath) and extra ladybug blankets. As she gets bigger and grows out of the “t” sizes these are getting more and more difficult to find. I swear every toddler girl in Southern New Hampshire is her size because these jammies sell out fast.

The front door is the next project for winterizing that always baffles me. Personally, I would prefer to seal it off completely and hang a blanket over it, but Muffin isn’t too keen on spending the next six months with no front door access and a giant elephant-sized blanket on his wall. The door wasn’t cut completely straight so there are gaps and weather stripping has to be cut and customized to fit in correctly.

The most daunting task on the winterizing list is the raking. The never-ending raking. While we only have two trees in our yard the neighboring trees are close to fence line so we have a mountain of leaves each year. This is Bug’s second favorite outdoor chore (gardening is the first) and she runs and runs with excitement as she jumps in all my piles and throws leaves in the air. The fact that she is so cute makes it worth the extra time recreating my piles. And she loves to be the leaf stomper. She stomps and spins and makes up songs like she is Lucy stomping grapes, only not as messy.

These are the household chores I don’t actually mind. The raking I enjoy because I am outdoors and because there is an eventual end. It’s not quite like laundry where I take a deep breath of accomplish only to turn and find that Bit has spit up all over her clothes and Muffin has unloaded a suitcase without me knowing it. No, there are only so many leaves that can fall in my yard and while it is a lot, they can all be tamed. When it is finished I can actually look back at my work and see that I did something measurable that day. And the winterizing makes an impact on my heating bills and how many chills I feel a day so that, my friends is money in the bank. Any activity that gives me a measured sense of accomplishment helps me feel like I am standing strong on one leg with only a breeze to ruffle my pink feathers.

The Playground Star

Before Lil Bit was born, we bumped into a Mom’s group at gymnastics. I swear it was kismet; besides a working mom's group I joined before the lay-off, they were the first group of incredibly friendly moms I have met in New England. They just opened up and talked as if we had known one another in years. The most friendly mother, Momma E, had actually recently moved from Colorado Springs (coincidentally??) and I knew I had to get over my own Jennifer shyness and let JD get into the fray with these women. We had a play date in June, went on vacation, and then the baby came. These ladies have been on my mind since then, but we only just today finally got back together with them.

I hate that it has taken me so long. In my recent awaking from the baby fog I knew I had to touch base with them again. They are brilliantly lovely women with parenting styles similar to my own. It is hard to feel lonely when you are around people as open as the Midwestern sky! I find it funny that while we were at the playground casually chatting and playing with the kids, we engulfed another mom and her girls into the group; another woman who had recently moved and was feeling shy and desperate to know more about the area. Momma E instantly welcomed her and chatted her up along with another local mom whose adorable children were playing with ours. Since Bit was asleep in her stroller and Momma E was keeping an eye on the “stuff,” I hopped in on the kid games.

Bug wanted me to be a troll under the bridge, so I started trying to grab their feet while they pounced on the bouncy bridge apparatus to the slide. It started with two girls, then the third wanted to climb the “tower” to get away from me. So I became the tickle troll who would tickle them down the slide. Incorporating the slide drew a fourth kid, then a fifth and before I knew it, there were seven four to two year olds chasing me around the park begging for tickles. Bug then incorporated a game I started when I was pregnant and couldn’t rough house any more. Basically, we snuggle and take pretend bites out of one another and decide what flavor we taste like. She grabbed my neck and captured the tickle troll, took a “bite” and declared I tasted like strawberries. The other kids quickly caught on and would take their turns deciding what I tasted like. Apparently, pizza is a popular troll delight.

When I got her dressed this morning, I was just hoping she wouldn’t be too shy around all the other kids I knew we would meet up with. I put her hair in cute pigtails and said a little prayer for her to be the outgoing star I know she can be. But instead, I ended up being the star of the playground. And, honestly, isn’t that how it should be? There I was running around and around with seven kids trailing me, eager for either tickles or to tackle me and take a bite. Who isn’t more fun to defeat, chase, or have the attention from on the playground when you are a small child than an adult? With the freedom of knowing Bit was being watched, I was able to be the star in Bug’s show for her friends and she felt so confident. I could see her beaming with pride that her Mommy was the one everyone wanted to be around. And the other Moms were able to chat seeing there was someone making sure they were taking turns, keeping their hands to themselves, or climbing safely. 

Sure, I gave up a little time chatting with the moms, but honestly I feel so FULL after getting in kid time. Playing gives me back all the vigor I lost being 30, paying bills, and counting calories. Instead of an espresso, take a shot of playtime and you will feel energized again. Next time we go to the park, I will be happy to give Momma E a turn being the star since she is a very hands-on mother as well. Then her little girl will be the one with the “cool” mom.

There were plenty of parents actively playing with their kids at the park today and that also makes me a happy camper. Sure, sometimes you just want to read a book in peace while your kids run and I understand that. But if you’ve never given it a try, I encourage you to be the star of the playground. I promise your day will suddenly seem a lot funner, I mean, more fun.

The Collection

Every day I get up and fight a genetically-bred natural instinct to hoard. It’s a dominant quality passed down from my mother’s side. I can remember my grandparents house having two or three rooms dedicated to floor-to-ceiling stacks of boxes and random things that their seven children passed off to them for storage. And I want to personally thank TLC and A&E for their reality docu-shows on hoarders. I think after seeing two episodes my mom went through and finally donated her stacks of unworn clothing gathering dust in her bedroom. She painstakingly washes and saves plastic food containers with lids. From butter to yogurt, she washes them and adds them to her Tupperware. That is a cabinet I dread opening in her house, so I am more than happy to recycle mine.

As a modern day nomad, one would think that I don’t have the stability to hoard things. I admit we do have boxes of things that we have just never gone through and that make move after move. I’m more of a passive hoarder in that way. But there are two items that I consciously and fastidiously cannot get rid of. The first are boxes. Hey, I move… a lot. I need those things. Appliance boxes are my favorite because the packing materials make it go back so nicely and safely. I literally have a 20-foot wall in my basement four rows high with nothing but boxes.

The most important collection is the breast milk. Lil Bit joined us in July of 2010 after her healthy, text-book pregnancy quickly turned dangerous. She was six weeks premature and the ordeal left both of us hospitalized. She was transferred to the NICU in a hospital about a mile away and I stayed in my recovery room. I could hear the babies crying in the rooms next to me, the family members coming in to visit with joy and hope in their voices. My room was quiet with the exception of IV beeps and the whir of the pump.

There I would sit, staring at her pictures on my cell phone, willing out any drop of liquid gold. When I was released I could still only visit her in her hospital, returning home to snuggle my toddler, build my own strength and try to sleep. Oh how a mother’s heart aches without her baby. To have a person grow there inside you under your heart and then be forced away from them, albeit for their own health and safety, is such a helpless feeling. All I could do to help her was build my own stamina and pump.

It was a week before she learned to breathe well enough to try suckling. It was another two weeks before she could eat without feeding tube supplements. I spent six hours a day with her at the hospital. I would go in, change her, weigh her, attempt to nurse her, weigh her again only to realize she had only taken in a small fraction of a meal, hold her during her tube feeding, sing her to sleep, lie her down, and then pump. The mmmm-chhhh, mmmm-chhhh, mmmm-chhhh of the pump became my battle cry to get her home. And within ten days, I was easily pumping 50 ounces a day. Months later, I’m down to just once or twice a day as her tummy and my supply catch up to one another. Sometimes, I still go out to the garage freezer and “manage” the collection, making sure the bags are sorted properly. I catalog in my mind just how long she will be able to have milk if something were to happen to me. Sure, it’s a morbid thought, but we went through a lot.

Today, Bit is four months old. She is healthier than I am, gaining weight and size so fast she is no longer measured by her gestational age but by her birthday. Developmental milestones do seem to be following by her due date though and hopefully she will catch up to the other babies soon enough. She is working on reaching, grasping and some days I think she will roll over at any moment. She is a very happy baby and only gets upset when she is hungry, wet, tired or has to spit up, which happens A LOT.

It may seem in my writings that she is an after thought rather than a role player but that is not the case. She just sleeps all the time so it is hard for her to inspire plot development. But she is stirring a completeness in me that I didn’t expect. And her health saga is inspiring a lot of writing I am compiling together for a series of posts on HELLP Syndrome. After I was hospitalized I couldn’t find many personal testimonies and if Balanced Rock serves no other purpose, I would like to help other families who go through the same thing understand what they may be able to expect and feel some comfort in knowing that they too will be okay.

We rarely need to use the collection these days, but when I do need to defrost a bag my mind goes back to August 5^th at 11am and see the proof of my devotion to this little baby girl. This collection does not hide under the stairs in the dark. It is one I feel proud to share with the neighbors, to say, “Hey, look what I made!”

Journey to Rattlesnake Rock

All this writing is certainly inspiring an attitude adjustment. The decrease of random thoughts in my head and emotional evaluation means there is more room for happiness at the surface and I have come to two important revelations. The first is a reconnection with Rand. A recent online conversation about Anthem has me tingling with desires of exceptionalism once again. What have I done today, what have I given, what have I produced that is truly exceptional? What have I done that no other person in this world could? My blood has been flowing a little quicker. I still wake up feeling like tar, but after a warm cup of chai my mind goes to work plotting the possibilities of the day.

The second revelation is the most important. For months, maybe even a year, I let idleness convince me that the life of a stay-at-home mom isn’t as fulfilling for me as working motherhood would be. My own laziness and lack of discipline let the dark voices sink in and I began to “what if” about a life not my own. But my writing has helped me take inventory of the blessings I have only because I am here with my children.

Yesterday we went on a dinosaur hunt in our backyard. Bug relishes any opportunity she gets to boss me around and be in complete control of our games. She decided that we would follow a Dora-style mapped out adventure to return a lost Jack-o-saur (the dog) to his mommy. First we had to go through the tunnel so we marched our knees high to the sun between the shed and the retaining wall. Then we mounted our horses Pencil and Lasso to gallop over Rattlesnake Rock. The adventure finally took us to the playground (our swing set) where the Jack-o-saur Mommy was waiting. As with any Bug adventure, we had to take frequent trips through Rattlesnake Rock before she had her fill.

Shame on me for taking the opportunity to fully engage in the game of my child for granted! I know I will say this a number of times, but there is no dignity in parenting a young person. Being down on the ground, making funny faces, giving low fives too slow, these are the building blocks of trust. But more than that, they are the pieces of me. I felt better truly playing her game yesterday than I have been in weeks. Any insecurities about a clean house, my clothes, my body, saying the right thing, all of those worries were gone and I was happiness personified. What have I done today, what have I given, what have produced that is truly exceptional? I did NOT half-ass my way through playtime. I drank up every ounce of joy and spunk she had to offer.

Later that night she crawled out of bed at midnight and interrupted my movie. I still had Bit in my right arm letting her settle into her deep sleep, so I asked Bug to curl up on my left side. She talked through the end of my movie and wiggled so much Bit couldn’t get comfortable, so we headed off to my bed and we lied there whispering nose-to-nose our favorite things about the day and one another. I told her how much fun I had playing with her, I thanked her for making me laugh. I asked her who loved her the most in this whole world and she said, “you and my Daddy of course. Momma, don’t talk. You stinky now and you wake up my sister.” After a quick thought about changing toothpaste brands, I drifted off to sleep snuggling my exceptional child.

The Potty Chronicals - Volume 1

JD used to entertain the notion that she would forever be the star of her life, the leading lady in the days of our lives. As often happens in Hollywood, in my saga the supporting actress is actually the top billed star. I have always wanted to be a mother; I actually majored in child psychology so that I could prepare myself for the task. I would close my eyes and try to imagine my children, what mischief they would cause, the sweetness in their hugs, the activities we would do together. None of those imaginings comes close to the bright light that is my real life Bug.

Our oldest daughter is truly forged from the fire and steal of Muffin and myself. Type A personality, smart, athletic, ambitious, a mini-chief marching steadily in her princess tutu and baseball bat ready to soak up each new day. She came into the world to give us hope and healing after the most traumatic experience we have ever been through and, my, she does deliver. Our three-year old dynamo has a kind heart in a precocious package and a desperate need to control her world.

Control is a dominant theme for three-year olds. As they enter early childhood they experiment with the limits of where they begin and their parents end. They begin this phase at about 18-months but after their third birthday I believe there is a resurgence of independence. By then, Mom and Dad have, hopefully, firmly established their limits with what is allowed so the little person decides who they want to be within those limits. Do I want to be a farmer or a chef? Do I want to wear high heels like Mommy or a hat like Daddy? I have read over and over that in this phase the child will demand control of their own exploration and it seems easy when reading that this is a time to step back and be a facilitory observer rather than a lecturer.

That is easier said then done when changing the dirty butt of a 38-inch small person. I want her, need her, have to have her potty trained. Every ounce of me wants to be finished with diapers/pull-ups. And every ounce of her seems completely satisfied sitting in her own goo. Even when I can smell that she has had an “accident” she refuses to let me change it. This fact alone would suggest that she just isn’t ready so I should let it go. But when she is naked (her birthday suit is her favorite outfit) she is 100% perfect using the bathroom. This single fact has made potty training the biggest bane of my mothering existence. Why will she not do it if she has clothes on? And as the chill of fall sets in, naked time is getting limited again.

We started the process the spring before her second birthday. With the warmth of a new season being naked was a cute option when we were at home so started the praising potty dance. We went to Grandma S’s house and candy rewards were entered into the fray. My niece M, who is six months younger than Bug, was also experimenting with potty training and we were all sure the peer pressure would make our strides permanent. When winter rolled around again and she wasn’t fully trained I didn’t mind too much because she was young. Then came the pregnancy and the thought of having two in diapers was not appealing. We went to see Grandma C in Colorado, then came the premature delivery, then came Grandma S, then came the hospital stays, then Grandma left, then the other Grandma came, then it was her birthday, and with all the change in her life Bug refused to give up the control of going poo in her pants.

This saga will likely be a major story line in my life for months to come. She is begging for more social interactions and wants to go to school, but can’t until she uses the potty. This fact is not enough for her to change. We have tried treats, praise, stickers, big rewards like swimming lessons or school. We have tried everything except giving up and that is where we are now. After a particularly long day in big girl panties, Muffin and I told her we wouldn’t talk about it again. We put the panties ceremoniously away and bought her a box of diapers. When she saw them at the store she told a random passerby, “Hey, look, it’s MY diapers! Oh, yeah, these are for me and not my sister!” I think this will take awhile. 

The Life Nomadic

Back in the age of JD there was no such thing as moving for a guy. I spent three years of college in an on-again-off-again relationship with a guy convinced he would be moving from Denver to a bigger city that offered a bigger city sort of life. San Diego. Las Vegas. And that was fine with me, I just wasn’t going to go with him.  I was confident in the possibility of a functional long distance relationship and comfortable in the concept of things happening for a reason. I wasn’t scared of moving; as an Army brat I had been everywhere and anywhere and had to pick up and start over smack in the middle of high school. Basically, I wanted to pursue my own future in my own way and not make compromises for a guy.

One fiery first kiss later, Jennifer boxed up her diploma, meager collection of life tangibles, six-month old pup and hit the road for Northwest Kansas. It would be my third address in fifteen months, having graduated in Colorado and then moved to Mom and Dad’s in North Carolina licking wounds from the previously mentioned fellow. I happily chased the sun across the country from civilization to the middle of nowhere for THE guy. Over eight years our game of chase has taken us from the Great Plains back to Colorado and now to New England where Live Free or Die is the motto for the present.

My Muffin loves three things in this world: his family, America, and baseball and not always in that order. Serving those passions has taken him around the world and provided me the comfort necessary to stay home with our brood of bubbly, blond-haired girls and aging four-pawed fur-sons. He is ridiculously fun, smart, intense, and the only guy I have ever trusted explicitly. So I pack up our things every few years and start new with a clean slate. But children need routine and function to thrive, so with Daddy traveling so much to provide, my blood now runs granite. No matter where we end up I become the rock everyone comes home to.

The nomadic lifestyle means no Grandma to take the kids for the night or Grandpa to steal them away for ice cream. When it comes to playing pretend and teaching ABC’s I am a gold star over-achiever. But I take little satisfaction in the drudgery of dishes and laundry and cleaning. Domestic life creates a Groundhog Day suck spiral and there are many days when I am toppled. We have been here for over two years now and have finally built a stable network of reliable friends and planned outings help to break up the days, but the loneliness still sets in. There are times when my mind begs for something else to do, to have someone else to talk to but a three-year old and gummy-grinned baby.

Perhaps it is no wonder that I am so thankful for the nights. With my girls tucked sweetly in their beds I can put the tantrums aside and reflect poetically on the giggles. I can finish a chore and feel some accomplishment when it stays done for more than five minutes. But what fills my cup is that when I finally lay down in bed, my Muffin is there, wanting to give up his precious limited hours of sleep to whisper sweet nothings and random thoughts. Most mornings when it starts again and I have tired eyes, it’s because of the pillow talk. How thankful I am that he still wants to talk to me after eight years. He may actually miss JD more than I do so perhaps this blog is his blog too.

A Balanced Rock

Cut from centuries of wind, blizzard, and raging summer storms, Balanced Rock stands in a naturally occurring red rock park called the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The enigma is tucked in the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains in the shadow of Pikes Peak. I imagine it as a tall Native American woman standing with her proud face to the wind, hair and regalia whipping behind her, steady against the tribulations of an unforgiving world. She has poise and grace yet she is hard and unbending against the squall.

In reality, the Balanced Rock is a geologic feature made red, blue, purple, and white sandstone, conglomerates, and limestone sedimentary beds deposited back when Colorado was under an ancient ocean and then built up horizontally, and tilted vertically and faulted by the uplift of the Pikes Peak massif and forged by weather erosion. (Wikipedia Nov 2010) I like my version better, but regardless of what the rock formation is, it is really quite remarkable. This structural marvel begs the questions: why doesn’t it topple over? How can tons and tons of rock rest topsy-turvy on such a small base?

Balanced Rock is a keystone for me, and the symbolic reference for the woman I want to be. Since becoming a wife and a mother, balance has eluded me. It wasn’t so bad after getting married, but motherhood has taken sacrifice. First it was the body, then sleep and now day-to-day is a spinning carousel of caring for everyone else. It is easy to forget where I begin and end, what I did before Signing Time, pumping, washing diapers, tea parties, making dinner, quickies, vacuuming, kissing boo-boos, Little Bear, laundry… I think I vaguely remember that I used to shave…

I used to be JD. In about second grade, Jennifer gave way socially and academically to JD because my initials sounded better together than the other Jennifer’s. Jennifer even gave in to JD in college where there were so many people it shouldn’t have mattered. Even my professors used my initials. JD became my Superman, and Jennifer the Clark Kent. JD was a fiercely independent, outgoing, athletic, honor student who majored in extracurricular activities, leadership positions and sorority parties. Jennifer was the responsible one who did her chores, babysat little sisters, cried on Mom’s shoulder, and took groundings when JD missed curfew. It was sort of nice to have two identities and to leave the pressures of one or the other at will. Then I met my Muffin, who refused to call me JD, and the two were forcibly fused together. Jennifer could no longer use JD to protect her vulnerable side and JD was forced into retirement until weekend nights.

Then came the shooting. Then came Bug. Then came the move. Then came the lay-off. And somewhere in and out of the years of depression and happiness I lost the greatest friend I ever had: myself.

This blog is my honest struggle to balance the loving, nurturing, silly, playful, stable, vulnerable and tired Mommy/wife I am today with the JD I used to be. I’m hoping that by reflecting on who I used to be and who I hope to be, I can find the middle ground between what it takes to keep this family strong and Jennifer sane. And maybe, even if it is in writing, I can be the star of my own show, standing through the daily storms with my hair whipping behind me, facing the wind head-on, feeling the warm sun on my back, brilliant as a Balanced Rock.